


Cold (Freezing, Fiery, Fraying)

by orphan_account



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, M/M, Unbeta'd, for that new realization that reapers mask IS FUCKING BOLTED TO HIS SKULL, happy ending because im trash and i love my boys, hospitilization, mask talk and being brainwashed and stuff, oh you know. the usual, reaper probably qualifies as legally blind, so minor descriptions of lowkey gorey stuff just fyi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-18
Updated: 2016-07-18
Packaged: 2018-07-24 18:06:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,258
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7518001
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i></i>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>“Then I’ll take-“ he moved forward and curled his freezing fingers under the cheek contour, his back muscles tensing as Gabe screamed. He fell back on the ground, hands finding the mask and pushing back down with all his strength, suppressing the revolting and hideous shriek that both left his throat and shook through every ounce of his body. He could feel it in his teeth, in the base of his spine, all the way out to the tips of his fingers, his eyelashes, vibrating like electricity in water.</p><p>“Holy- holy shit, are you-?” He kneeled down, reaching a hand out before Gabe curled in on himself, the tremor in his body still aching through every muscle. “God, what did they do to you?”</p><p>“Made me stronger,” Reaper coughed, “The mask,” Gabe gasped.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cold (Freezing, Fiery, Fraying)

**Author's Note:**

> this is 100% inspired by the happenings of anons on [cyrioci's blog](http://cyrioci.tumblr.com/tagged/asks), (edit: i found the original post but im on my phone so i cant embed it rn: http://the-shadowsmiths.tumblr.com/post/147507551579/i-may-have-been-looking-a-little-too-hard-at-refs) so all credit goes to those folks for ideas.
> 
> i also. kinda debated saying this or not but. for #added character depth: pay attention to whose name is attributed to dialogue (for part 1)
> 
> first reaper76 fic yay! hope you guys like it (again this was not beta read so forgive spelling errors. ill probably fix them later)

The mask. It’d always been the mask. Sometimes it felt like he was born with it, like he didn’t really have a face underneath anyways, he was a part of it as much as it’s a part of him. His perception was screwed, both physically and in a way that was hard to pinpoint under the scratched ivory and bolts. Bolts, bolts- sometimes he would catch a glimpse of himself in a mirror and taste bile in his throat in memory of the phantom action. It was still fresh, hot, like a white brand just above his eyes, he could feel the heat. He could feel the heat and the electricity that coursed through his bones at every misstep, every unplanned breath or wave of the hand, every wrong look or surge of emotion and idea, _count your bullets, soldier._ Still fresh.

 _A reminder._ Some voice played in his mind like a broken record. He had blacked out, sleep coming as easy as the tides, at the identification of his hands locked down- feet too- the sting in the bridge of his nose as his pupils dilated. There was screaming. He knew it was his screaming, but when he’d think about it, never on purpose, he’d feel so disconnected, like watching security tapes of a room a possessed body was being tortured in. He had always known the road he chose was not one of light and clear blue skies and the sound of laughter and babbling brooks. Gabriel Reyes knew this was not a path that deserved redemption, that his heart had been twisted in some rotting fist, screwed into his heart the same way the _mask_ was screwed into his skull, into his conscious. But it was a means to an end- his end, namely, but a means no less. He always knew.

He could not flee after, he could not flee completely, still dragged down to earth like an Icarus who had been given a new set of wings- only to destroy them at a second attempt, as the mask made him visible, made him viable, made him vulnerable, trackable. If he had not been dead set on destroying Overwatch, maybe he would turn on the people to _truly_ made him this. Not the well meaning angel or the Utopian-brainwashed children of the cult of Overwatch, but the ones who forced him into submission in the name of his cause. Regret wasn’t a palpable word anymore for Reaper, but neither was loyalty. He was loyal to no man, to no organization, to no death. He _could not_ be loyal to any life, institution or man, he _could not be._

The hands were cold.

He had not expected them to be so cold.

He had not expected them.

The ground was hard underneath his body, growing heavier in the gaze of another man, another life. His heart was no longer there to beat wildly, but the beast in his chest was clawing at his throat, trapped at the exit of his mask. He tried to writhe, tried to evaporate, but his eyes were locked on the low neon glow of the red visor, advancing on him with timed steps. The world seemed to freeze in time as the man stood before him, shoulders broad and imposing in the dark of the warehouse. Gabe was not bleeding, no, but that feeling of giving up ownership, of loosing possession of his body rolled in his stomach and he found himself dizzy as if with vertigo.

“You’ve been desperate, Reaper, and now you’re barely wounded and cowering in the dark? What are you playing?” The voice seemed to come from all around, not just from the man with the visor and the white hair, but from the ground, from the walls, the ceiling, the air itself. He felt himself hiss in recoil. He waited for the man to shoot, to kick, or punch, or do _something._

“Who are you?” The voice rung again, unearthly.

“You’re with Overwatch.” Reaper said, the delivery lack luster.

“Not anymore. But you’re with Talon. Come on, we’re both smart enough to know this already,” 76 said with some kind of sneer in his voice. “What are your motives? What was your goal here, tonight? Before I end this.” The words sounded mechanized, processed, not just the quality of the voice through machinery, but the phrases, lilted and robotic.

A chill ran down Reaper’s back. A chill ran down Gabe’s back. “What did they- how do they- did you know a Morrison?” Gabe said, voice quiet. He could feel the mask weigh down on his face.

The soldier did not flinch. “No.”

Gabe could feel his body rise from the floor, his arms phasing out in smoky patches as his chest pulled together, sinews of black thread and feathers repairing, dragging their sharp claws through his heart, through his mind. He wanted to scream, but it had happened far too many times before to complain now. “I killed him,” Reaper growled, “I betrayed him and watched him die. You can fill me up with bullets, but I will not pass. You are a fool to challenge me.”

“You didn’t kill him.” The soldier stepped into Reaper’s range, past a shaft of moonlight that had escaped the broken boards of the roof, momentarily flashing off of his mask and down his back.

“Get away from me.” Gabe snarled as 76 drew closer, “Back off.”

“You didn’t kill him,” his rifle was drawn, and then, suddenly, thrown aside, “You couldn’t have killed him.”

“And why’s that?”  
                In an action so fast that Gabe was not sure even happened, the soldier had removed his mask and disposed of it by the gun. There, standing before him, was a ghost. Pale, even the eyes dimmed in age, in fright, in hostility, there was the specter of a legend, a story he had told himself was made up, for his own sake, for others. He swallowed.

“You look like shit, Morrison.”

He did not laugh. Gabe did not laugh, Reaper stood silent.

“Take off your mask.” Jack said, unwavering.

Reaper shook his head.

“Then I’ll take-“ he moved forward and curled his freezing fingers under the cheek contour, his back muscles tensing as _Gabe_ screamed. He fell back on the ground, hands finding the mask and pushing back down with all his strength, suppressing the revolting and hideous shriek that both left his throat and shook through every ounce of his body. He could feel it in his teeth, in the base of his spine, all the way out to the tips of his fingers, his eyelashes, vibrating like electricity in water.

“Holy- holy _shit_ , are you-?” He kneeled down, reaching a hand out before Gabe curled in on himself, the tremor in his body still aching through every muscle. “God, what did they do to you?”

“Made me stronger,” Reaper coughed, “The mask,” Gabe gasped.

“What about the- what about the mask?” Jack’s hand found Gabe’s shoulder.

He wanted to scream again. The pain was failing, diluting into the midst of all his ailments, but the primal fear, the gut reaction to another shock made his knees weak. He could think, he could think, but all he could think about was how it would sting again to speak. “God, they, Jesus, _Jack,_ ”

“Tell me what it is.” He sounded formal. Buisnesslike. Gabriel wanted to throw up.

“The screws.”

His heart stopped for a moment, half expecting the bolt to strike once more, to be incapacitated and to howl out in pain. But it didn’t come. He waited, but it didn’t come.

“Are they-?”

Gabe nodded. Jack looked horrified.

“Okay, it’s okay, we’ll get you back to home base, you’ll be-“

“I don’t want to.” He wasn’t sure where the voice came from, but it came deep from his chest, writhing and dying like a sick animal. “I’d die before surrendering.” Gabe said. Gabe said.

“Gabe, don’t say that.”

“Call me that again and I’ll kill you.” His arm reached back for the holster, his arm shuddering in a tenuous movement. Jack stopped him, grabbing his wrist.

“God, Gabe, you can leave after they fix you, _please,_ just do this, please.”

Something was hanging in the air, it was disgusting and thick and oozing into Gabriel’s lungs like hot tar. He could hear the footsteps, feel the distant sting and rip of bullets, he could see the other Overwatch puppets hurtling into the massive garage like it was their business. He could smell the outdoors they brought in and when he was shot forward by a bullet to the back he saw himself, again, from the outside, watching in horror as the mask shattered against the cement, releasing a cloud of black smoke and a tearing cry. The others stood by as one solid white eye, revealed by the half broken mask, flicked around, trying, desperately to see. He couldn’t stop screaming, over and over again, like fifteen different versions of himself were howling at the same time. And as he saw himself picked up by Jack, then passed to another he did not recognize, he grew light headed, dizzy, the pain racking his body through the bloody hole in his head and the screw still implanted, shivering with electricity. Tears must had been rolling down his face, his jaw sore as he noticed the feeling of damp cloth and the pieces of the mask in Jack’s hand beside them before blacking out. The mask.

…

He awoke suddenly and in no pain at all. His heart skipping again as it expected the jolt to hit as he glanced about the room. The monitors beside him gave dull but steady beeps, his eyes adjusting to the shaded- but still bright room. It was small, windowed, but cramped with machines upon machines. Gabe tried to sit up, but found his stomach heavily bound in bandages and too sore to hold him. His eyesight, so less sharp than in his mask, focused in and out on the white walls, the white chair, floor, bed sheet, the darker white on the bedside stand of something smashed and-

His hand, the one not riddled by iv, pulled up to his head in a slow and methodical manner. He felt the bandage over his forehead, and how it felt like dried blood soiled cloth. His face, he touched his face, his nose, under his eyes, the scars all over and fresh lacerations, his lips, his chin, the space underneath where the oxygen tube parted into his nose. How long had it been? How long since there was no mask to speak of, no drills?

“Gabriel.” Came a voice that was trying not to cry. He looked up, the blurry figure dressed in doctor’s blue and blonde hair. “You’re _awake._ ” She stepped forward, taking a breath to compose herself, but failing. She sniffed, “Oh, God, Gabriel, you’re- you’re going to be okay.”

He opened his mouth to speak, but found the freeness of no headgear- nothing to obstruct his chin, his speech- and how _dry_ his throat was too distracting. He wondered, just for a moment, if singing was appropriate. It was hard to sing in the damn get up.

“Here, are you thirsty? I’ll-“ She rushed out of the room and returned quick, glass of water in hand. Gabe took it, hand shaking, she helped him steady it, and he took a sip. Water. How many years without water? “You didn’t- you probably didn’t need to eat or drink in your form, but, it sure makes things better, right?” she tried to laugh. A sigh came from her when he didn’t respond. “Do you know who I am? Do you remember me?”

“Angie.” He croaked.

“Oh, God.” She choked up, “Gabe, I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry.”

He wanted her to leave. She was wiping away tears and trying to replace his iv bag and adjusting his oxygen and he felt like he could sleep for a hundred thousand years. The hissing voice was gone, his eye sight limited, but the improvement of peripheral space leaps and bounds from what he could dream of, and the God damned feeling of the air on his cheeks felt like he had died again and been born anew.

“There’s gonna be-“ She took a deep breath, “People are getting back from a mission. I can bar them from the room if that is what you wish.” She was suddenly a hardened doctor who had seen everything. Maybe she had.

“Jack,”

“Jack.” She responded. “And no one else.”

He tried to nod, but she was already out of the room. His head spun with the new drugs and the light through the window signaled late afternoon. Warm, he felt warm. It was a good feeling, like he could sink through the cot into the pillows and sleep again. He could sleep again.

His eyes blinked open, Jack was sitting by the bed in the white chair, sipping a cup of coffee and reading a book through the thickest glasses he had ever seen. He watched him drink, set the mug down on his lap, and lick his thumb before flipping to the next page, consumed by the story. The light on the bedside stand was on, the window dark. Jack must have been there for a while.

“Hey,” He breathed, his voice still not gathering in his throat. Jack’s shoulders pulled back in surprise, he dropped the book on the floor.

“Jesus, Gabe, almost gave me a heart attack.” He bent over the pick up the novel, and set the coffee on the table. He could see the movement of a smile. “I’m glad you’re awake, though. How’re you feeling?”

“Bad.”

He laughed. The same old, chest laugh he had given millions of years ago. Gabe saw the crinkles on his eyes in his mind, drawing them on the Jack that sat in front of him. “Angela’ll hook you up with more pain killers if you’d like.”

“I’m okay.”

Jack stretched over and grabbed Gabe’s hand, trying not to move it too much from its connections and tubes. His hand was not cold anymore, but warm, the same feeling he had gotten before falling asleep again arose in his stomach. He wished he had glasses so he could see the smile on Jack’s face. He knew he’d be grinning still, kind and whole heartedly.

“You’re probably gonna be here for another month, I’d bet, at the very least. I know you said you’d rather die but, just for our sake, could you keep your dying to a minimum? It ages Angela like the devil.”

Gabe felt himself smile too. It felt strange and painful to move in any manner, but so natural, so perfect. He wanted to stop time and just let this moment last forever. He wanted a camera- one of those film ones, so he could have the moment in his pocket as soon as it was gone.

“What time-“ his voice creaked out.

Jack looked at the watch on his wrist, “Half past one. This is your fifth day here. You woke up on the second during surgery and mumbled a bit, but you’ve been asleep for the rest of it.”

A long moment of silence drew between them, Gabe looking to the blur of the window, the daze of sleep tempting, but also tinged with a hint of fear, not knowing when he’d wake up again. “Jack,”

“Yeah?”

“Talk to me.”

“About what?”

“Anything.”

“Hm,” he thought, taking off his reading glasses with his free hand and rolling them over in his palm. “Well, you’ve seen Angie, then?”

Gabe hummed in reply.

“Well, Jesse still works here. Still keeps up that cowboy persona. He’s got a lot of friends now, still babysits the younger ones. And he’s still a hell of a shot.”

He snorted.

“And you remember Ana’s kid, Fareeha, right?” Jack closed his eyes, “God, Gabe, she’s so strong, commanding, smart, witty,” He looked at Gabe, “She reminds me of you, actually. Just a little bit. Not as conceited, though.”

Gabriel rolled his eyes, frowning over his grin.

“There’s some new ones, Hana, she’s 19, loves video games- rides a mech in battle! And Lucio, they’re good friends, he’s a musician. Ah, I don’t know if you were there to meet Genji? His brother joined, he’s an archer. And Genji’s friend, whose an Omnic monk- Shambali- he’s joined as well.” He paused for a moment, “A lot’s changed, but a lot hasn’t. I bet you’d like that we don’t have much surveillance anymore.”

That was true. He did like that. Not a reason to join, but still a comfort. He wondered if there were any cameras in this room, or if any were turned on. His vision lowered to Jack, then panned over to his left farther, coming across the shattered mask again.

“The screws were four inches deep.”

Gabe felt sick.

“You went through brain surgery.”

God.

                “Zarya wanted to apologize for shooting you so much. Junkrat doesn’t.”

               There it was again, the smile on the corner of his lips. What a bad time to grin, but in the midst of all the seriousness, what Jack had to say was ridiculous. He almost wanted to meet these people. Who were they? Was this even the same Overwatch as before? He knew it wasn’t the same exact people, but did they all hold the same sentiments?

                “Angela said she found,” Jack looked away, “she found wires and- your mask was very similar to mine in regards to visual function and such, but, Gabe,”

                He didn’t want to look at him.

                “She thinks there was some level of physical control Talon had over you. I don’t think it was all them, I know you, you wouldn’t let that kinda thing happen, but you had to know.”

                “I knew.”

                Jack sighed.

                “It hurt.” His voice was distant, fading, flat. “When can I walk?”

                “I don’t know.” Jack held his hand again, “I think she mentioned after some other procedure, so I can’t imagine it’d be less than a week or so.”

                “This is- this is Hell, Jack.” He could speak a little more, “Stuck here, immobilized, with you.”

                Jack scoffed in fake offense, “How dare you, Gabriel! I stay here for ten hours and this is what I get.” He shook his head, the moonlight falling through his hair again.

                “Hey, Jack.”

                “Gabe?”

                “Kiss me.”

                As if without barrier, Jack stood up and leaned over, kissing Gabe on the lips, and then on the cheek. He held him at seeing distance. Gabe could feel him breathing, and at that close, he could see every scar and nick that wracked Jack’s cheeks and forehead and nose and lips. He could see his light blue eyes, his laughter lines. For a moment, they were both twenty and in uniform, Jack’s eyes twinkling against the blue suit, his lips and teeth and smile making a promise. He yawned, stretched up and out like a cat. Gabe blinked out of the memory.

                “Hoo,” He came down from the yawn, “I think that’s enough for me tonight. Are you okay with me going back to my bed?”

                “Yes.” Gabe said, out of breath.

                “Alright, good night Gabe.” He ran his hand through his graying hair and grabbed the book and mug, shoving his glasses into his breast pocket. He was still handsome. He was handsome, without his mask, Gabe thought. Without his mask.

                “Good night.” Said Gabe, devoid of the Reaper.

 

 


End file.
